A Political Reality
by moirariordan
Summary: "Oh, let me guess," the king drawls, with the kind of smirk Clarke had expected from the beginning - cocksure, arrogant, the type of smile that promises violence if you cross it. "Murphy had you dressed up nice, reminded you of my reputation and sent you in here to be good company?"


So, Clarke's village might not be one of the biggest ones in the kingdom, but it's not as if she's stupid, or that she's unaware of the fashion trends of the capital. She understands there are certain expectations of people who attend the king's court, social conventions that need to be followed, for propriety's sake. But just as a matter of pure_ logic_ - if it is the case, which is clearly is, that everybody hates them, then why does everyone continue to wear these _damn _corsets?

"It's idiotic, but such is the burden of womanhood," says Raven, while tugging the strings tight around Clarke's waist. "Suck in, my lady, and pray for endurance - "

"Ouch, damn," Clarke says, grabbing the edge of the mirror. She hasn't worn one of these in years, but it's even more terrible than she remembers. "Stop, stop, tight enough! If the king expects me to live through our meeting then he'll have to be content with the size of my waist as it is."

Raven ties off the laces and grins, a quick, spirited thing she'd never show to anyone but Clarke. "As you wish, my lady."

"Clarke."

"Lady Clarke."

"Ugh," Clarke wrinkles her nose in the mirror. Raven laughs. "Why are we doing this again?"

"To plead our case to the sovereign and procure aid in fighting the plague that has befallen our village," Raven reminds her, "now don't be a wimp, put on your dress."

"Ugh," Clarke says again. The dress isn't any better. Lace and velvet, what a joke. If this is what court is like, she'll take being a country bumpkin any day. "Do you really think this is going to work?"

"The Duke seems to think so," Raven says.

"Murphy always thinks his plans will work," Clarke replies contemptuously. "Which is half the reason we're in this situation in the first place."

Raven finishes with the last row of buttons and pulls away, meeting Clarke's eyes in the mirror plainly. "I think we're out of options. Our people are dying and we need help, and if this is how we get it, then so be it." Her countenance softens a little. "I don't mean to be harsh, Clarke, but - "

"No, it's fine." She's right.

Raven places the finishing touch on the outfit, a comb for her hair in the shape of a lily. It's Ronna's, a good fortune gift that she swore up and down was designed for the Queen. Clarke doesn't feel much like a Queen wearing it, but she supposes that sort of thing is more mental than ornamental, in the end.

"Ready?" Clarke asks.

"Ready," Raven says gently, and touches Clarke's wrist briefly. Clarke nods and takes as deep of a breath as she can. Ready. "I'll call the valet in, have him escort you to the receiving room."

"No, I know my way." Clarke heads for the door, stepping carefully in the unfamiliar heels. "Thanks, Raven."

"You're welcome. And Clarke," Raven says, "make him beg if you have to."

Clarke swallows hard, and nods.

* * *

_If you expect to have the king's attention to your little...problem,_ Murphy had said, _then you will need to direct his attention in a more_ personal _direction, first. _That smirk he'd worn, while saying it too, the way he'd laughed at her as she blushed and stammered, realizing what he was saying. Poor, little country doctor, so unlearned in the ways of noble court. _They're going to eat you alive, _he'd muttered, more than once.

Fucking prick, Clarke thought.

She doesn't trust nor like the Duke, why would she, when his failures are the reason the Forest Clan so easily penetrates their borders? His inability to get them enough medicine to fight the diseases they bring? His all-around uselessness in _all _matters - unless it's something to do with wine or women, that is.

But as she said, Clarke is aware of the realities - if this is how the king's court operates, then this is what she must do. The lives of the people in her village are worth far more than Clarke's reputation, and it's not as if she really needs it anyway. What's the difference, back home, anyway? Not a single soul outside the reaches of the capital would care about her_ virtue, _so long as she knew how to dress their wounds and heal their coughs. Clarke doesn't care, certainly.

(She doesn't know anything about court. She has no reason to know - and what reason would Murphy have, to lie? She's there as his guest, and if she missteps, it will reflect badly on him, would it not? And frankly, the idea of the king using this, sex, in this way, as…_payment _- well. What more could you expect of a young ruler, who won his power through war? Clarke doesn't know much about war either, but she can imagine.)

* * *

It's consistent with Clarke's luck as of late that she makes her first mistake right away - apparently wandering the halls of the palace without an escort is frowned upon. The guard that catches her and drags her rudely to the receiving room is as contemptuous about it as possible, and Clarke scolds him in return without thinking much of it, only realizing what she's done when the maid tending to the fire squeaks out loud, her face going pale and eyes directed back over Clarke's shoulder.

"What - " Clarke says, and turns, "oh."

She supposes she should be bowing or curtseying or something, but the king doesn't really seem bothered. Just walks in and laughs at the entire tableau, heading straight for the desk in the corner. "No, don't let me interrupt. You were saying, about Sir Miller's parentage?"

"Your majesty," the maid breathes, and escapes quickly. Clarke has no such luxury.

"Uh," Clarke says, glancing over at the suddenly stiff, placid-faced guard - Sir Miller, apparently a knight, of course he's a _knight,_ "no sir. No, your majesty. Uh."

"Relax," says the king, and waves at the knight, who bows deeply and exits as quickly as the maid. "He's an idiot anyway."

"Yet you knighted him anyway," Clarke replies, and instantly flinches back. Gods, she's _so _bad at this -

"What was your name again?" the king says, sounding like he's holding back laughter, and Clarke relaxes a little, "oh you're the doctor, Duke Murphy's girl - "

"I am _not _Murphy's girl," Clarke sneers. The king smirks a little, eyebrows shooting upward. "I - Clarke Griffin. Lady Clarke Griffin. From the east border. I had - " she swallows back the rest of her sentence. There's - no, seducing and things to be done first, right?

The king blinks at her sudden silence, then smiles again, looking amused. "Spit it out, Doctor."

The condescending tone makes her angry, but Clarke bites the inside of her cheek to try and hold back the retort that instantly springs to her lips. _This is the king,_ she reminds herself. _You need to be...demure. Or something._

"I had traveled a long way to see you, your majesty," Clarke says, and bows deeply like she should have done when she first saw him. The corset makes this much more difficult than usual, and she stumbles a little when she stands back up, panting a little from the effort. "It is an honor and a privilege, sire."

The king grins, leaning casually against the desk. Clarke wishes she were the type of girl who embarrassed easily; perhaps a blush might turn his smile into something softer than surprised bemusement.

(She knew she should've allowed one of the younger girls to come in her place. Innocent and impressionable or not, at least they would've been better at the "charming seductress" part of this task.)

"I have a feeling, Lady Doctor Clarke Griffin," the king says, "that that is not what you meant to say."

"No," Clarke replies, shifting uneasily. The corset had shifted slightly when she'd bowed, and one of the ribs is now digging painfully into her breast. "I mean, yes. Sire. Not to imply you're wrong, or - "

"Or maybe it's my own wishful thinking that the horrid look on your face is not an unintended effect of my presence," he interrupts, and Clarke hastily rearranges her features. This is why she is not made for court, she thinks wryly.

"I apologize, your majesty," she says haltingly, "it is - I mean no offense, I am unused to this style of dress - "

"No kidding," the king replies, raising one eyebrow, "why are you wearing that damned thing anyway? You look like you're about to be presented at a ball. The afternoon is not even half past, for God's sake."

Clarke freezes, biting the inside of her cheek. Goddamn Murphy, she thinks.

"Oh, let me guess," the king drawls, with the kind of smirk Clarke had expected from the beginning - cocksure, arrogant, the type of smile that promises violence if you cross it. "Murphy had you dressed up nice, reminded you of my reputation and sent you in here to be _good company_?"

Clarke's eyes widen. "Your majesty, I - "

"Relax. I'm not that kind of king," he says, circling around the desk to collapse, rather haphazardly, in the grand chair. "Do sit down, Lady Doctor, lest you faint from lack of air."

Clarke would much rather stomp back to her room to take this bloody dress off, but beggars can't be choosers. Neither can country doctors.

"I knew he had a card up his sleeve," Clarke mutters, maneuvering her skirts down onto the settee.

"Rats often do," the king says, leaning back in the chair and regarding her through narrowed eyes.

Clarke returns the gaze, a little unsurely. He really is nothing at all what she'd expected; he's certainly much younger than they say. His clothes are fine, but worn, and he wears no crown; just the purple sash tied around his upper arm that signifies his connection to the royal bloodline. He's also very attractive, not that that matters now. Still - it would've been nice to know, earlier. Clarke had been bracing herself for an ugly face that matched an even uglier demeanor.

Well, Clarke thinks. It's about time for some good fortune.

"I came here to ask for help," Clarke says plainly, and the king waves a hand, making a face like he's faintly insulted she think he hasn't already puzzled that out. "I hail from the eastern border, a small village on the edge of the forest. I mean no disrespect, sire, but we really cannot continue on in this manner; it is hard enough keeping the Forest Clan at bay with the gates intact, but with the damage as it is, without help from the capital I am afraid that - "

"Wait," the king interrupts sharply, "the Forest Clan? They've been attacking your village?"

"Yes," Clarke says, surprised. She hesitates. "Raids, almost every fortnight, now. Duke Murphy has communicated your regrets to us several times, in response to our requests for assistance…"

The king curses, loud and sharp, turning his head toward the window angrily.

"...requests that he never sent," Clarke finishes, everything suddenly becoming painfully clear. "Ah."

"Let me see if I understand you correctly," the king says, turning back, "you're telling me that your gate is damaged. By the Forest Clan, who have been raiding your village. And you asked Murphy for help, who told you I refused, and when you pushed the issue he brought you here and told you to whore yourself out for my favor."

Clarke hesitates again, this time so she can be sure to sound appropriately polite - and not as furious and vindictively triumphant as she feels - when she replies. "Yes, your majesty."

He curses again, hitting the brass chime that sits on his desk. Sir Miller appears almost immediately, and the king scowls. "Arrest Murphy. I want him in the dungeons before I'm finished with this meeting, am I clear?"

Miller nods gravely, and Clarke's triumph sours. "Wait," she says, "arrest him? For lying?"

"You don't think that is a punishable offense?" the king asks, waving Miller away. He vanishes through the door again, presumably to go hunt down the Duke. "Lying to the king?"

"Well, yes, it's just - "

"This is not the first time he's brought a young girl with the wrong idea about me to my palace," the king says darkly. "Most of them were a sight more_ aggressive _than you, Lady Doctor; I usually send them away before any despoiling has a chance to occur."

Clarke blinks. "He's done this before."

"If he ignores your cries for help, then he's surely ignored others'," the king replies. "Not to mention what he's doing with the money I _have _sent him in response to the requests he does choose to actually tell me about."

Clarke scowls, "I knew he was a prick," she says, without thinking. Then she gasps, realizing she's just cursed in front of the king.

The king, who is laughing. "It seems I misspoke. You are aggressive, just in a different way, I suppose."

"I - " Clarke has to look away from his face, too flustered to keep eye contact. "I thank you, your majesty, for your help - my village is - we're very grateful for your compassion - "

"I am your king; it is duty, not compassion," the king says dismissively. "You'll have your gate fixed, and a company of soldiers to improve your defenses. And my gratitude, for bringing this to my attention, Lady Doctor."

Clarke nearly wilts in relief. "Thank you," she says, more genuinely. "From the bottom of my heart, thank you, your majesty."

"My name is Bellamy," the king says, leaning back in his chair. "You might as well use it."

Clarke blinks at him dumbly. "Your majesty…?"

"I don't tend to stand on formality," he continues, and hits the chime again. A maid appears this time, with a tray of drink, seemingly by magic. "Do you drink whiskey, Lady Doctor? It's early, but if you're to tell me about your troubles with the Forest Clan I should think it would be helpful."

"Clarke," she corrects, mouth going on autopilot. She's a little lightheaded, both from the unexpected turn of the afternoon and the ever-present pressure of the corset, "and I think I'd much rather change into a dress I can breathe in, if I'm being honest."

The king - _Bellamy_ - laughs again, waving at the maid, who turns back from the doorway to stand at his elbow expectantly.

"As the lady wishes," he says grandly, "Clarke."


End file.
